by Elsa Jade
But her dark eyes seemed to swallow the flames and then the cool, silvery glow as they left the stratosphere. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak, but her lips parted just enough to let out the faintest sigh.
Behind them, Lana let out a soft whoop. “It’s like a rollercoaster!”
He assumed that meant no one was going to chum. “Ping the Diatom, please.”
She toggled the controls with a little laugh. “Ridley! Wasn’t that fun?”
Mael’s reply came through, amused. “Sorry, she’s reviewing all her poor life choices. And trying not to review her last meal.”
“Oh no. Tell her to put pressure on the inside of her wrists. That might help.”
“I’ll do that. Separating now.”
“Good hunting,” Coriolis said.
“Good mating,” his second replied before disconnecting.
The Diatom shot away before the Bathyal could actually shoot at it.
Coriolis let out a sharp breath and directed the AI to start their jumps toward Tritona. “You two are still feeling all right?”
Lana nodded enthusiastically. “This’ll probably sound woo-woo—”
“More than acupressure?” Marisol murmured.
“—but I feel…free, suddenly.”
“It’s gravity,” Marisol said. “Or lack thereof.”
But the irrepressible Earther only shook her head, making her brown curls float even though the artificial gravity on the Bathyal was adequate. “I used to do genealogical astrology—birth charts—at the head shop where I worked. People loved them, but… My own wasn’t, um, great. And now look!” She gestured out the viewport. “We can change our stars!”
Marisol swiveled her chair to gaze at the smaller female. “Is that how it works?”
Lana half closed one eye. “It’s about where your energy is,” she muttered.
Having schooled young Tritonyri through battle, Coriolis knew when to interrupt a nascent conflict. “Your energy and the rest of you is now inbound to Tritona, so feel free to move about the cabin. Ridley gave you the tour, so I assume she showed you your berths, explained how the galley works?” When they nodded attentively, his chest tightened at the memory of the dedicated fighters he’d led—and lost. This was not like that, he assured himself, not anymore. “And she told you not to open Sting’s quarters?”
Another dutiful nod from Marisol, but Lana pursed her lips. “It’s wrong to keep animals caged without any interactions or enrichments. Bad enough those poor creatures were trapped on the Atlantyri for centuries.”
“They were frozen in stasis when they left Tritona,” he reminded her. “They slept through all those years on your Earth, and they will awaken back home where they are meant to be.”
Her nose wrinkled, joining her mouth in radiating disapproval. “Is Sting frozen?”
“In a way, yes.” Just as he was “in a way” an animal. It would be impossible, even with her temporary translator, to explain to her all the ways Tritonans had corrupted themselves trying to fight the poisons inflicted by the Cretarni.
She’d see it soon enough herself.
“Leave Sting alone,” he said sternly. “You have a lot to learn before you get to Tritona. I know Ridley gave you both datpads with the IDA introductions to galactic citizenship, and Maelstrom downloaded relevant info on the history, geology, weather, zoology, and cultures of Tritona.” He gave them both serious looks. “It’s a lot. But the refugee commission rep needs to believe that you are serious about immigrating to Tritona. The only way we can convince them to change our planetary status from conflict zone to open, to qualify for aid and investment, is for them to believe that others want to join us, that Tritona can thrive again.”
Lana glared back at him. “We do want that,” she said with as much snap as she seemed able to muster. “If you want that, eventually you’re going to have to share your secrets with us.”
He stiffened, but he couldn’t very well protest, not when she was right.
Without waiting for his reply, she unclipped her harness to push to her feet. Despite her show of pique, she let out a little eep of alarm as her vehemence lifted her higher than she intended.
When he reached out to steady her, she snapped with real aggression, “Don’t touch me. I’ll zap you. I won’t mean to—well, maybe a little—but I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know you don’t,” he soothed her. “I don’t want to hurt you either. Which is why I’m saying leave Sting alone and focus on your future on Tritona.”
She gave him one last glower before flouncing out of the cockpit, and with the lower gravity, she had a lot to flounce.
“Don’t scare her,” Marisol murmured.
“She’s the one threatening to electrocute me,” he pointed out with a touch of asperity. Then he sighed. “I don’t want to frighten her, or any of you, but the universe is a dangerous place. And I fear Tritona is still the focus of more than its fair share of menace.”
“I’ve read enough cosmology to know that interstellar void is the default. Any place that concentrates enough energy to support life is going to generate trouble too.”
He cut a glance at her. “Tritonesse talk like that.”
When she returned the look, her dark eyes swallowed the streaming silver light. “I didn’t sign any IDA contract. I’m not your bride. I’ve agreed to put on a show for this individual judging your planet in exchange for whatever your people can do about the Wavercrest syndrome.” When she had closed her eyes, the pale fringe of her lashes were less like spindrift and more like the stinging tendrils of the hectopi that could puncture right through armored scales. “Don’t forget, our lives are at stake too. This fight isn’t yours alone, and whatever secrets you keep is just keeping us in the dark.”
Before he could answer—these Earther females were impatient and impudent—she too slipped out of her harness and stood, though she managed to catch herself before floating in the half gravity. She gazed down at him. “I am going to the lounge to continue my lessons. If you have anything meaningful to add, please do let us know.”
She sailed off the bridge with all the somber grace of a Tritonesse procession underway.
His gaze fastened like a magnetic lock on the sway of her hips underneath the tight belt of her coat. When he’d caught her as she almost swooned, the fabric had been delightfully soft. Softer than the exposed angles of her bones underneath. Now he suspected even that thin skin, unpadded by the protective fatty layer of the Tritona-born, was still softer than the cold metallic core at her heart.
He wrenched his gaze back to the fore and the distant stars. Forward was his direction now, and he would allow nothing to get in his way.
Chapter 3
A touch on her shoulder startled Marisol and she jolted upright. Only as the hand steadied her—the commander’s touch; she recognized it from before—did she realize she’d been asleep.
“Peace,” he said softly. “You were dreaming.”
She brushed a hand across her forehead, which pointedly dislodged his grasp on her shoulder while removing the loose hair from her eyes. “Was I?”
He was still too close, the low couch cushions sagging them toward each other. With a huge viewport offering a stunning view of the cosmos, the lounge had obviously been a favorite of past owners, considering how shabby the furniture was. And she’d conked out right in the middle of the patched cushions and streaming stars. Well, it was the middle of the night on Earth…
Or was it? Not that it mattered anymore.
Interrupting her hazy thoughts, he said, “I thought it was the datpad showing you Tritona’s shorebirds. But then I realized you were crying.”
Not alien wildlife. She’d been reading about the war that had devastated his world. Trying to recall what she’d been dreaming, but not wanting to remind him of the dismal history, she grimaced. “I sound like a seagull when I dream? How lovely.”
“I don’t know seagulls. We have a bird called”—he tilted his head in th
at way she knew meant the translator wasn’t quite right—“iriwyl, the silverwing. They have white feathers and soar on the wind.”
“Sounds like a seagull,” she grumbled.
“I’ll point them out when we get to Tritona.”
At the reminder, she drew in a slow breath.
This was happening. Really happening. She was on a spaceship rocketing toward another planet with intelligent alien life.
A little surge of anger made her turn away from him. Poor Earth, with all its problems. Couldn’t some alien somewhere have offered translators or renewable energy—or at least hope?
Her averted gaze fell upon the tablet she’d been given, not so different from the technology on Earth. And it had been showing her small 3D videos of the fighting and the aftermath of the war.
No wonder she’d been crying in her dreams.
And no wonder no one had come to save Earth. The rest of the galaxies had their own problems.
“I didn’t mean to bother you…” She sat straighter. “Wait, who’s flying the ship?”
“The AI knows more than I do about traversing spacetime.” He pulled out his own datpad and made a note. “But that reminds me. We should add a course on the basic controls of various transportation and life support systems. Since you never know.”
She rubbed the back of her neck, kinked from slouching on the thin cushions. How much use would that be on a world that was almost ninety percent covered in water? “Remember, unlike Ridley, I don’t have gills.”
“Yet.” Leaving that enigmatic—and rather disturbing—response to hang in the disturbingly light gravity, he reached behind him then turned back to her with a covered bowl, like a giant sippy cup. “Your dinner.” Now the sippy cup made sense, considering how things in space didn’t always stay where they were put. “Lana tells me it’s basically soup.”
“She’s eating now? I’ll join her.”
He shook his head. “We ate a bit ago, and she’s gone to her berth. She said it’s been an exhausting few days.”
Things not staying where they were put was a problem on Earth too, sometimes. Marisol levered up the lid of the cup and peered inside. “Is this soup with water?”
“Not from your dehydrated stores but made with your water, yes.”
Her hand shook just a little. During her time in school, she’d had issues around food. Controlling her food had been a way to feel empowered when she’d been far from home. During a visit on break, her grandmother had seen her struggle, and with therapy, she’d learned other techniques for dealing with her anxiety. After that experience, she’d made sure to include the importance of access to mental health in all Wavercrest foundation programs.
Not much point in saving the world if everyone starved themselves and was unhappy. She gazed down at the soup.
Except now she wouldn’t be saving that world. Normally she asked Thomas twice—or at least she wanted to—if he’d used the right water to hydrate her food. Only had only taken that one time with a blistered mouth and esophagus to get paranoid about her food again. But she found herself not double checking with Commander Kelyre. She shouldn’t trust him more than Thomas, but maybe she just didn’t care anymore.
She took a sip of the warm soup straight from the cup, since he provided no utensils. She lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “It’s good. Thank you.”
“It’s made from a common ocean plant on Tritona. I think you’d call it a seaweed. Dried out and powdered, it lasts forever and is high in the micronutrients we need. The same micronutrients in your wellspring water. We use it as a base in almost everything, but even by itself it’s a favorite with all the tribes on Tritona.”
She took another sip. It was thicker than broth, and almost creamy, salty and umami. As she took a third sip, a slow heat began to rise. Alarmed, she looked up at him. “It’s burning.” She stuck out her tongue at him. “Ith i lithtering?”
He squinted at her, and her mouth, obviously trying to translate. “Ah…”
Sucking her tongue back in, she said more clearly, “Is it blistering? Thomas sent an epinephrine auto-injector, in case I have an allergic reaction.”
He put his hand over hers, silencing her rush of words. “It was not burning. There’s just a little lava-leaf spice added. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He curled his lips inward. “I wouldn’t poison you, Miss Wavercrest.”
She swallowed hard. The burn wasn’t getting worse. Instead, it spread through her veins in a slow wash, already fading a little. “It’s kind of like wasabi,” she mused. Hating the quiver of anxiety in her voice, she asked, “Really, though, no blisters?”
His dark gray gaze roamed her face, then slowly, he reached out to trace one fingertip over her lip. “You look…” Was his voice shaking just a little too? Her pulse quickened. “Fine,” he finished, curling his finger into a closed fist. “Your guardsman showed me how to use your medical device, although this ship has a superior antidote to anaphylaxis. You’ll be fine on the Bathyal, I promise.”
She swallowed hard again. The heat of the soup had all but dissipated, but her mouth still tingled. Not the spice, but his touch. Her year-long isolation in Montana had been lonely in many ways. But she was not going to muddy the waters by reacting to him. She’d already explained to him that she was not his alien mail order bride. This whole journey was the adrenaline shot right to the heart that would hopefully save her life.
He cleared his throat. “If you don’t like the flavor, I can—”
“I like it,” she interrupted. “I’ve just been eating such blah food for so long, it startled me.” She drank again. “I love spices, but with the water thing, I started distrusting everything about my food. And everything else, I guess.” She sighed. “I probably owe Thomas several apologies. And you too.” She met his gaze squarely.
“You’ve been fighting for your life,” he said softly. “That can make you…not yourself. I’m sure your guardsman knows, as I do, you meant nothing personal.”
Yes… She’d had nothing personal for far too long.
She took a hasty gulp of the seaweed soup to cover any flush that might be visible on her cheeks. The heat of the spice washed through her again. She could blame that for her blush. “This is really quite good. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He sat back against the cushions, flinging his long arm across the back of the couch, looking more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. Probably because there was nothing he could do about their plight during this transit back to his world. “Because it’s so nutritious and convenient, we ate a lot of seaweed during the war. Sometimes just gulping down the dry powder.” He grimaced. “Between battles, sometimes we’d dream about what we’d add to our seaweed. This spice was always my choice.”
“Lava-leaf is quite accurate.”
“It’s one of the few land plants we use in our traditional foods. It grows only on the highest, driest peaks of the volcanic backbone range of Finimarwy, our largest land continent. Since the mountains were mostly inaccessible to us, lava-leaf has always been a symbol of our troubled relationship with the Cretarni. The spice was always hard to get and expensive, but during periods of open war with the Cretarni, it was almost impossible to find.” He sighed. “My fighters would tease me, said I should just chew our homegrown pyroclastic stones.”
Despite his languid pose, his fist along the cushions flexed. “There was a time when I thought the spice could be a symbol of the mutually beneficial trade that would teach Tritonans and Cretarni to live in harmony, finally. My fighters laughed at that even more than the idea of voluntarily burning your tongue.” He shrugged. “If I have to get my spice by banishing all the soils-suckers to the deadest reaches of space, so be it.” He gave her a fierce smile. “Anyway, I’m glad you like it.”
During his story, she’d finished the soup. With a last gulp, she set the cup aside. “My grandmother’s Wavercrest Saltwater Foundation worked in a few conflict zones. It’s difficult to talk about the ou
twardly privileged indulgences of saving plants and animals when people are suffering. But she always believed that some of those conflicts would end if people had enough food and clean water and productive land to support their communities. But those solutions are so deep at the roots of the crises, sometimes it’s easier to just keep chopping at the surface troubles.”
He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Maybe in a strange way I should be grateful that our war devastated Tritona. We wouldn’t have been able to fight off the Cretarni if they hadn’t ceded the battlefield. With nowhere to go that they hadn’t contaminated while trying to kill us, they just left the planet.”
“Flying away has never been an option in Earther wars,” she said wryly. “But I can’t say that forced proximity has made us any better at solving our problems.” She gazed past him to the streaming stars. “You Tritonans never thought about leaving too? Starting over somewhere else?”
He grimaced. “The refugee resettlement commission would like to force the issue. The Tritonesse refused the order outright. And as vast as the universe is, it’s not as though every planet would meet our needs.” The starlight streaked across his half-shuttered eyes, like meteors in the shadows. “Tritona is our home.”
The heat of the spice had faded, which somehow made her seem colder, and she clenched her hands together. Her home had become poison to her, so where did that leave her? The fleeing Tritonesse who had been her ancestresses must’ve left records on their homeworld as they had on the Atlantyri. Would Tritona become her home?
All the Wavercrest wealth and contacts and good works over decades meant nothing. She was completely alone.
“I think I should probably head to my quarters too,” she murmured. “Thank you so much for the food.”
Taking her cue, he rose smoothly to his feet and stood at that strict soldier stance. He held out his hand to assist her up but she gestured for him to stay when he took a step in her direction. “I know the way,” she assured him. “And even if I didn’t, the ship isn’t that big.”